I hate it when DJ’s talk during the intro to a song, especially when the song is my favorite. Their voices grate my nerves and my ears, and I completely miss the excitement that would have been built by the first few measures of the best song ever! I mean the best song ever for the next week until they overplay it and I find myself driving to work in silence instead.
I hate it when I drive to work in silence instead because then I think about things. And I cry. I think about what it will be like when my parents die and leave me here all alone without children or a family and then I’ll have to latch on to some other people who won’t really know me like they do. Then I imagine that I am in a terrible car accident and I try to guess who would be the first person to show up at the hospital…then I try to guess who wouldn’t show at all. Sometimes I think about where my life is going and all of the things that I want to accomplish and how am I ever going to do it, and then my brain starts to feel like someone is trying to suck it out of my head with a curly straw. So I cry again. So I think, “Turn the music back on, Girl!” And I do. But then when I turn the music on I hear that Leann Rimes song about the girl with 31 candles on her birthday cake and a cat named Jake and something’s gotta fucking give. It’s a vicious cycle.
So this morning as I was putting myself through the depths of hell and shaking hands with devil as he poured another coke down my throat to get me high on caffeine and carbonation, I saw something floating between the lanes. I thought it was an animal so I swerved a little bit and thought maybe this was it, my chance to get in that accident, but it was really just a wig. Yes, I said a wig. It was brown, curly hair floating on the highway. I wondered where the person was that had worn it last and if they were a fugitive making their big escape because you know all you need to do to get away is wear a wig.
Because I make it my priority to keep you up to date on my romantic escapades, I will tell you that I drove to the “meeting place” on Saturday and proceeded to wait for the man who might have been the most wonderful thing to ever happen to me for roughly 45 minutes until I gave up hope and came to terms with realization that I was being stood up. I was pissed about it only for zero minutes because I pretty much expected something like that to happen. And then I started laughing. An overly tanned man had approached me when I first sat down at the picnic table and asked me about my book. I knew he was flirting with me because he had taken his shirt off on his way over and then proceeded to flex his arm muscles while he talked to me about a book that he didn’t give two shits about. I told him that I was meeting someone so that he would go away. When he realized 30 minutes later that my “someone” had not arrived, he came up to me with a stupid grin on his face, “Did you get stood up?”
“It looks that way.”
“I wouldn’t have stood you up.” Thanks guy. Thanks for making me feel like the only nice guys left are those who spend their time hitting on girls half their age and lying in tanning beds perfecting the art of muscle-flexing.
Fortunately, I received an email this morning from Stand-Up Guy who informed me that he waited at the park for me until 1:30 (an hour and a half past when we were to meet), and that after walking around, he realized that there were two places we might have thought were the “meeting place”. He has offered to take me to dinner Thursday night, and I have accepted.
But I am considering wearing a wig.